The “Angel Choir,” which is your typical little kids choir, presented their Christmas program this morning during service. And I sobbed. To be honest, Christmas music never fails to make me kind of weepy in the first place. But this year it was more than that.

Because she should have been up there, too.  She’s finally the age where she could have participated. She would have been singing. And dancing. And wearing an angel costume. And loving the heck out of it. And I would have been so proud. I would have been up with the other Mamas, clutching my camera and just beaming back at her. I would have given her a big hug afterwards and told her how proud I was of her.

But it didn’t happen like that. And it won’t happen like that.

The kids’ program didn’t make me weepy like this last year because, at our church, she would have been too young to participate. But this year, her first “of age” year, it just smacked me in the face.

She would have been the cutest one up there, of course. And most talented.

Alas.

It’s this change in season that hurts in strange areas of my being. Never one to be silent about my love for winter, autumn is a very, very close second on my list of favorites. It comes to pass that, because of the adoption, I will have two whole seasons of new memories to be made… without my daughter. It stings and smarts. I don’t let it interfere with my daily duties as an everyday Mom. I don’t even let it interfere with my duties to my daughter as her first mother. But when I walk into a store and see little girls’ clothing in browns, reds, oranges and deep plums, full of beautifully textured sweaters and cords, well, my heart aches a little. Or a lot.

I know that some hard months are just around the corner. I am thankful that, at the very least, there is beauty to be found in nature during these hard times. Staying positive isn’t my best attribute or a strength that I can pride myself in based on past performance. I’m just not that good at the whole shebang. Last year, as we gutted pumpkins in the kitchen, BigBrother and I both covered in orange goo, I felt that twinge in my soul, the tug of my heart strings. I trudged on; I assume I’ll be able to do the same this year.

I miss her when the air cools down, when I speak outside and I can see my breath. Or, more appropriately worded, I miss her all year round but these two seasons hold such a special place in my life that it’s hard not to have her always present at this time. For so many, spring signals regrowth and new beginnings. For me, it was always fall (back to school, clean slate) and winter (with pure white snow covering everything that needed covered, making it pure all over again). So much I want to share. So much I could have shared.

Tonight I will bundle up in a jacket (if one fits?), take a mug of coccoa outside and sit, quietly, in our back yard. I’ll stare at stars, brighter without the haze of humidity between us, and have some moments alone as this transition from season to season takes place with or without my permission, my blessing.

And thus begins the slippery slope towards her birthday. I write this as a reminder to myself to enjoy the months that come before hand, for I do, truly, love them so.

TheHusbandMan and I were watching Dr. Phil (the Fireman and the NANNY!) when the UPS truck pulled up. I told him it would be my package from D while he told me it would be his beer brewing kit. Surprise, surprise, it was both! We both delighted in opening our boxes, showing off our new possessions and acting like kids on Christmas morning.

I sorted through my package which was all maternity clothes, lovingly sent by D. They’re all fall and winter clothes, in the size that I need them considering the size that I am, so it’s like a whole extra wardrobe! The burgundy track suit that I’ve been lusting after for quite some time and the super fun beaded jeans. I was amused that one shirt is a shirt that I already have; we have such similar tastes. I was also thankful that these arrived because Old Navy is having a maternity sale right now and… oh, I’ve been hankering for some sweaters and jeans and cords (!) and all of that lovely fall stuff. I can now hold off. For at least a month. (Maybe.)

I held up a shirt that felt really soft and I held it to my face. And man, if I didn’t immediately well-up with emotion and tears.

There are smells in life that are attached to memories. And the smell of J and D’s house plus the smell of their laundry detergent can just immediately conjure up memories of my daughter. I was just suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of longing for both my daughter and one of my best friends whom I haven’t seen in a few months! My heart felt heavy. I was kind of upset.

Her blanket used to smell like this as well. She had two blankets. The pink silky variety. And D gave me one at some point. For awhile, we would switch out the blanket on visits so that it would smell like her for awhile. And then, after BigBrother was born, he inherited the blanket. (Yes, my son has a pink blanket. Two blue, one pink. He loves them all equally.) And it smells like him, like our home, like our laundry detergent. Not that I think we stink. I just miss the smell that accompanies my daughter.

And so smelling it today was … unexpected … and somewhat hard … but … welcome. I’ve got the darks in the laundry right now (because it’s supposed to be 60 degrees on Saturday and I’m wearing that burgundy track suit!!!) but… I might not wash the white jacket for awhile. Keep it smelling like my daughter. In case I need a moment of immediate transport.

I got up, found my cell phone and called. D answered and asked Munchkin if she wanted to talk to me. She did. She told me that she was wearing pink and that her backpack had Hello Kitty on it. She told me she was excited. I said that I was excited for her and very proud. I said that I loved her. She told me that she loved me, too. I held back the tears until I finished up the conversation with D. Then I wept into my coffee (already made by my Husband) and blackberry jam toast (craving as of right now).

I busied myself with work and discussions with BigBrother. Then I showered. Not alone, of course, because if Mommy’s in the shower, well, BigBrother has to be in there, too! I got ready. I left for the post office and the library. And I drove fast. With the windows down. It was just barely 70 degrees at that point and, oh, it felt heavenly. The radio was up though I don’t recall what was playing. I just let my foot hit the gas and away I went. Sometimes it’s nice to own a Mustang.

Upon returning home, I spent some time playing with BigBrother. And then we ate lunch. And then he went down for his nap. And then I went outside to cry for a little bit. It’s strange. To live your life in your normal, everyday function, all the while deeply aware that your child is hitting this huge milestone. There’s no pomp and circumstance over here today. It’s business as usual. It’s strange to be torn in two directions. My heart can simultaneously be with the Munchkin as she starts school. And still here with my Son as he runs around the living room with the mixer beater saying, “Beater! Beater!” (Toys are beneath this child. He’s going to be a chef.) All the while, it makes me more and more aware that a mother’s heart knows no limits to its capacity to love. My mind, however, gets jumbled and wires get criss-crossed.)

I’m wearing the necklace, as you can see. I wore it yesterday as well. I’ll probably wear it for awhile. Last night, BigBrother sat on my lap as we sang songs before bed time. He pointed to the necklace and asked “Wassat?” I said, “A Heart.” He repeated the word. I said it was a necklace. He repeated heart. I said it was a special symbol between Munchkin and Mommy. He pointed at the wall and said, “NONNA!” We got her picture off of the end table and talked about her for awhile and how she was going to school. Eventually this turned into a discussion about school buses and he was off to play. My heart melted. My son knows his sister. He says the word sister. He loves his sister.

I’m sad today. But, with all the little things between last night and this morning, my heart is just very full. Not as empty as I had expected. Oh, that’s not to say that I am still not filled with a longing to be with her today; I am. But, the little things. They add up, don’t they?

The messages are usually sappy in nature and intended for either TheHusbandMan or BigBrother. Things like, “I love my Bubba,” have appeared along with, “Oh, it’s what you do to me,” which is a lyric from a song that TheHusbandMan and I sing to each other as of late. Yes, I’m really that cheesy of a Mom. It’s just who I am.

And so, this evening, as I cleaned, bummed that I missed talking to Munchkin because she went to bed early and, prior to that, I had been involved in the biggest Book Reading Fest that BigBrother and I have had in a long time… I finally got everything put in its place. I erased the message from the Generic Magnadoodle. And I thought about what I would write. A message for either BigBrother or TheHusbandMan just didn’t seem to cut it. Not that they don’t deserve special messages. They do. And they get them. But it wasn’t their turn.

And so:

(Photo removed.)

No. She won’t see it in the morning because she won’t wake up at my house. But someday, maybe, she’ll look through my pictures. And it will be there, among all of the others. And maybe she’ll know how much she was on my heart and mind as she made her way into a new era of her life.

And I’m once again left behind.

In a day or two, I will have something profound to say about the process of being a first parent and watching, from afar, as your child steps into the classroom. But today, and most definitely tomorrow, I need to allow myself to feel. I need to be selfish with my emotions. I need to cry a bit. Eat some ice cream. And write a bit. And moan and complain. In these moments, I am fully aware that I am making open adoption out to be fully about me. I am aware of my selfishness. I am fully aware that if I kept up an act like this, I would only be doing wrong by my daughter. But I need some me-time. I need to wallow a bit. I’ll be back on task in a few days with the true reasons of open adoption tucked firmly under my cap. But now?

I won’t be there as my daughter wakes up on the first morning of her schooling career. I won’t wake her up. I won’t see her eyelids flutter, her smile broaden as her Mommy, not me, reminds her why today is a very special day. I won’t make her a healthy breakfast or argue with her that, yes, she will eat that healthy breakfast. I won’t help her get dressed in an outfit that I’ve planned to show off her cuteness. I won’t get to fix those luxurious curls. I won’t help her put on her backpack. I won’t take a million pictures. I won’t smother her in kisses. I won’t drive her down the street, hold her hand after we get out of the car and walk her to her classroom. I won’t calm any fears if she has them or delight if she delights. I won’t trudge myself back to the car and feel a sudden longing for a girl who has been by my side for three and half years without ceasing.

Because I know that longing all too well. It’s been my life for three and a half years. Because she’s not here.

Instead, I’ll dread opening my own eyes tomorrow. The Husband is already on the alert that I should be of little to no use for awhile; he’ll be handling BigBrother-care in the morning. I’ll look at the clock, knowing what time D plans on waking up the Munchkin, and compare our schedules. I won’t get to do any of that stuff. Instead, I know I need to go to the library and pick up a book I have on reserve. And I’m out of whole wheat pitas for my hummus wraps. I’ll throw myself into the mundane of tomorrow, not wanting to fully recognize my absence, yet again, in yet another milestone. By evening fall, I’ll have accepted it as part of a long and growing list of Things I Miss. I’ll remind myself that this is my “choice.” I’ll berate myself for useless tears. I’ll look forward to the stories of her first day, told second-hand by her Mom. And I’ll give myself a pat on the back for surviving another one.

I have plans to call this evening, to wish her luck before she goes to sleep. I cried as I messaged D to ask if a phone call would be okay. I’ve been assured that it is, of course, and even one in the morning. But do I want to interrupt in the morning? With pictures and busy work to get done? Do I feel like a burden for needing it more for myself than for her? I do.

These are the moments in open adoption that are hard. I feel useless. Worthless. And selfish for making any moment of this milestone out to be about myself. But there are some things that I can’t help. I’m human. I’ll be fine by the end of the week, I swear. But right now? I’m heartbroken.

When did she grow up? Where was I?

And then, one blessed birthday, I didn’t get the Barbie Dream House. I got the motherload of all Barbie Dream House dreams. You see, instead of a plastic and cardboard BRIGHT PINK piece of crap that cost way too much, my grandfather took the painstaking time to make me a real… WOODEN… DREAM house. It was fashioned after the pink version but it bore our house number. The roof was shingled with old mini-blinds. The chimmney was hand-painted with bricks. And inside? Grandma had wallpapered walls. She carpeted the floors. She made a bed. And there was a toilet. And a whole kitchen set. Up on the roof there was a balcony.

I was the envy of everyone. And I loved that house. I played with Barbies much longer than anyone else my age because, hello, wouldn’t you if you had a house that stylin’? But push came to shove and soon I was involved in other things and my little brother took control of the playroom. It wasn’t long before the Barbie Mansion was carpetless, drawn on and basically abandoned.

When TheHusbandMan and I bought our home last year, my Dad brought the doll house on the back of his truck. It’s been sitting in one of our storage rooms in the basement since it got here over eighteen months ago.

And yesterday, I cried all over it.

Yes, I’m throwing a pity party over a doll house that no one will play with ever again. Okay, it’s true. I could and should fix it up for Munchkin to play with when she visits. But it hurts, really. For she’ll never be able to wake up in the middle of the night, sneak down to the playroom and play for many uninterrupted hours with the house and her dolls. No one will do that in my house either. (Because, while most of our toys thus far have been gender neutral, BigBrother prefers a tractor and a ball over ANYTHING, including his beloved fire doggie that he snuggles with t night.) And I will fix it up, because it’s the right thing to do.

But my heart is broken.

I wanted to share it with a daughter. Instead, my only daughter lives too far away to get any really good mileage out of the house. I refuse to sell it or loan it to anyone because of the hours of love and devotion that were poured into it by my grandparents. And so it’s just a reminder, every time I need to go into the back storage room to find something, it looms in the corner:

“Someone could already be playing with me but you screwed up. Now I sit here, collect dust and waste away. You won’t get to pass me on. You failed. You failed.”

You wouldn’t think a doll house could say so much, right? Apparently it has some attitude.

A friend of mine tried to console me by saying that someday my granddaughters can play with the doll house. I’m sure that’s what TheHusbandMan’s paternal grandmother thought she could do with her daughter’s toys after that daughter was killed in an auto accident at 16… that someday her granddaughter could play with it…. and then she probably thought, well, then my great-granddaughter.

I’m a failure all over the place.

Maybe we’ll make it into an Army battle station?

For those worrying that I’m not excited about LittleBrother, I assure you that you’re wrong. We’ve got new bedding picked out and a game plan for creating the new nursery. I’m excited to rewash all of BigBrother’s clothing and go find an appropriate hospital picture outfit. I’m glad my boys will have that brother bond that my dad and his brothers have.

But I’m trying to let go of some hopes and dreams that I had. As that same friend said, it’s akin to how an adoptive parent has to mourn the loss of the biological child that they’ll never birth. Instead, I had a little girl and I screwed everything up. So, not only is there some mourning going on but a whole lotta self anger.

Wholelotta.

(View the doll house tag at flickr for a few more shots, complete with notes on the photographs. Labeling these has brought me out of a funk a little bit and very thankful for my grandparents, no?)

And I cried.

Her hair. It is beautiful. I lays in ringlets. Beautiful, shiny, dark little ringlets. And it's so long! When? How? I just saw her five months ago. Where does the time go? I feel this pang, deep inside. It's guilt, of course. Guilt that I missed each day's progression of growth of each little, beautiful ringlet. Guilt that I don't wash her hair. Guilt, guilt, guilt!

Dang it.

I just want her to lay her little round head on my lap and play with each and every singular ringlet as she slowly drifts to sleep. If she were here…

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His current favorite sound is a gurgling “g,” which he can do for hours on end. He loves to chew on his Taggie blanket and now, just purchased, his Taggie book. Speaking of books, he loves them; we read to him constantly. He likes his mirror but he will wing it at your face. Sitting in the bouncy seat shortly after a feeding is usually a pretty good way to get him to poop. He watches Martha Stewart; perhaps someday he’ll bake me a fantastic cake.

Watching him get his shots breaks my heart. When it comes to binkies, he’s picky. He’s nosy. He snores in his sleep. When he gets excited, he kicks his little feet and waves his arms all while making the cutest cooing sound known to mankind. He smiles the biggest smiles in the world when Daddy says, “Boo!” His pouty lip can bring tears to the eyes of stone cold Men. His skin is so soft and it always smells good. Except when he poops.

He rarely spits up unless I say, “He rarely spits up.” Then he likes to prove me wrong. Rebelling all ready! He doesn’t mind me dressing him for the day. Sitting in his high chair is a new excitement, even though we’re not feeding him solids yet, just getting him used to the chair. I take a million and one pictures and the child doesn’t mind. Music makes him move. He likes to lay on the big bed. He likes fans, light fixtures and his fishy mobile.

When he is ready to go to sleep for the night, he gets a little fussy. He wants to cuddle in close. He will flail his left arm around if you don’t hold on to his hand. And he wants his butt patted. The Butt Pat is magic. If he starts fussing again, just start patting the butt. Magic. And as soon as he falls asleep, his whole body relaxes. He smiles in his sleep. Sometimes he makes giggling noises. And when we lay him down in his crib for the night, he stretches his arms and legs, finds his little spot and drifts off to dream land.

I can say all of this about my son. I could say more. I could go on and on about the little intricate details of his wonderful daily life for pages upon pages. I could tell you every last thing he likes and doesn’t like. I could tell you what makes him giggle and what makes that lower lip stick out further than my own. I could tell you what will scare him and what won’t have any adverse effect. I know which diapers will work and which ones will give him an allergic reaction.

And he’s not even five months old yet.

My daughter is over two years old and I can’t tell you half of this information. Not because D doesn’t do a good job at telling me but because I’m not there. I don’t know her nightly bedtime routine. I don’t know if she has a blankie. (Though I do know she has a cup that goes downstairs with her.) Allergies? I don’t think she has any but I can’t say that for certain. I don’t know what her favorite toys are though I know she likes to line them up around her. I don’t know what she’s scared of and what is normal.

There are some days when I feel so close to my daughter. And there are days like today when I feel like the farthest thing from her soul. It hurts, really. I’m gonna go cuddle my Little Man to sleep.